Identity Crisis
by Keith Koenar
Summary: They told him his new name was Grigory Yeffim. One-shot, reviews appreciated.


**Identity Crisis**

The battleship buzzed with humans and alien species of all ages, a relentless flow of movement and noise. Everybody had found common ground with someone else, was it race or interest, it bonded the crew like a real family. And he- locked in his shared cabin- he was alone.

"For the next six months your name is Grigory Yefim."

He remembered the stern voice, the man that had said this. From that moment on he had been Grigory Yefim, Russian through and through, a man that did his duty and otherwise did not socialize much. Someone so inconspicuous he faded into the background and was only remembered when needed. He had no friends, no acquaintances.

If it wasn't for his roommate.

A real sweetheart, like some women said, Grigory only growled at the thought. He didn't like sharing a room with the guy, much too young, much too flamboyant. Obviously gay. Grigory could not afford that.

Submerged in thoughts, he glowered at the ceiling above his bunk bed. A low growl escaped him again. Swiftly, he got up and hopped from the bed, it was clear that he needed a drink. Fast. Alcoholic beverages were forbidden on board, but he had smuggled one or two bottles Utaberry liquor, strong enough to knock a horse out. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, reading 'Grandma's recipe' in his native tongue. It made him scoff dismissively. Likely his folk was so soft they let themselves be influenced by such an obvious marketing strategy. Popping open the bottle and grabbing a glass out of the cabinet in the tiny private bathroom, he poured himself a good amount before downing the drink with a nice tilt of his head.

The reflection of his face the mirror hit him. He appeared so... human. Had it really been enough to fool everybody? Sometimes it confused him how no one in the Starfleet had noticed yet. Maybe it was the contacts. Grigory squinted his eyes, impatiently downed another glass, then leant forward to inspect his honey brown iris'. Astonishing, how good those contacts were. After setting the glass down, Grigory lift his hand and cautiously took a hold of the contact lens. When he removed it, first shock then relief filled his chest.

There they were, his charcoal eyes. Never had he fully realized he had missed them so much.

He couldn't hold back then, in haste he removed the second lens, placed it in a tiny container and closed the lid, storing it in a compartment on the backside of the mirror. Abandoning the bathroom, he filled the glass with Utaberry liquor again and downed it, according to custom.

"You really do drink like a Russian," a heavily accented voice stated.

Grigory froze dead in his tracks and shut his eyes, his hold on the glass growing stronger. Anger surged up inside him, still he drove it back, back into the deep confinements of his soul. Nothing was allowed to seep out.

Pavel smiled cheerfully, even though his roommate couldn't see it, and added, "Mind if I join? Just for the sake of having someone keep up with my drinking habits."

_Mind if I join._ Of course he did, of course he wanted Pavel to go elsewhere as well as leave him with his bottle of liquor, but it wasn't like it had been a question anyway.

"I'll drink you to the ground," Grigory growled, his own accent playing with the words.

And Pavel, the little vermin, laughed. Threw his head back and laughed. He was up for that challenge. Good, Grigory thought, I will wreck you if you want it so bad.

Pavel came back from the bathroom with a glass of his own, sitting down on his bunk bed and feeling around for something underneath. To Grigory's surprise the young boy produced a flask of Vodka, smile bright as ever.

As he poured, he glanced up at his companion. "What you got there?"

"Utaberry liquor."

"Pfui. That's much too tangy for me. Vodka," Pavel lift the bottle, "Is clear as water and tastes like liquid heaven."

Grigory lift an eyebrow. It really was something to see the boy who everyone thought so innocent engage philosophic conversations about Vodka.

At first they, or rather Pavel, talked and drank for a bit, Grigory still motionless at careful distance. The buzz grew louder and louder, Grigory's throat felt ablaze, so must have been Pavel's as he kept up, and he kept up good. Grigory remained silent most of the time, watching the spirited boy making conversation on his own. With every word Grigory's annoyance grew, he fumed at the hostile sensation bringing about a turmoil in his stomach and spreading fire in his body. But he had to hold it all it. He had to.

"I hate you," Grigory suddenly broke off Pavel's sentence in a matter-of-fact tone.

Chekov's words crumbled into stutters before he plainly stared in a perplexed manner. He seemed hurt, crushed and lost all in one, and Grigory lavished every second of that look. It suited Pavel. At the same time, the boy, in a loss of words, fiddled with the bedcovers, and even if Grigory hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of his thoughts, he knew Pavel was having self-doubts. Asking himself if Grigory knew of his dirty little secret, confused wherever he had given himself away or not.

It was so obvious he hadn't come to terms with his sexuality fully it hurt. The idea of playing a little came to Grigory's mind. He had already slipped up, he could as well go into full-blown asshole-mode now for all he cared.

Fuck the cover.

Fuck the mission.

Fuck the whole god-damn organization.

Fuck it.

"I _hate_ you," he repeated, this time pushing on the word hate, "And you're _gay, _oh Christ. And too much of a pussy to come out!" This time his accent began to fade. "Shit, probably you have the wrong friends, haven't you? Tell me,_ Chekov_, how long did you plan on keeping this dirty little secret of yours."

Pavel glanced up, mouth open probably to stammer out something meaningless when he abruptly made a double-take. "Your eyes are black."

_Shit._ The lenses. Grigory had completely forgotten about that. No matter how much he had cursed the mission beforehand, shit. _Shit, shit, shit_. Pavel was sharp. He would catch on. Grigory needed something to stop him from asking questions, anything.

Against his common sense, perhaps it was the alcohol, he hurled the bottle in his hand away and lunged at the boy with full force, crushing him into the wall in the back of their bunk bed. After a short initial struggle, he straightened up, skull hitting the metal bars of the bed above him with a thunk, and lift his fist for the hit. Pleading, tormented eyes struck him.

And he just couldn't do it. He couldn't hit this... child. _He is just a child_, he thought._ A pathetic, vulnerable child. _

An uneasy coat of guilt settled over Grigory, pushed down on him, weighed on his shoulders as well as loosened his balled fist. His arm sank to his side, defeated, and his face adjusted to something distraught albeit withdrawn. Pavel was still frozen in terror beneath him, not daring to breathe. The grip at his collar had not slackened. He could have sworn the face of the weighty man above him had aged by ten years in a matter of seconds. Grigory slid off the boy with lethargic movements to slump down against the wall like a bag of potatoes, all energy drained.

"How old are you?" he mumbled.

"Six-sixteen."Pavel sat up and rubbed his throat.

There was a short silence, and then quiet and anxious, as if whispered by a mouse-

"Who- Who are you?"

The weary cast that troubled the other man's eyes did not change. "I don't know anymore," he finally admitted.


End file.
